Tag Archives: iPhone

Surfing the net – hangover cures, 18th century ships found under the world trade center, market trends, cremation, whether of not flies laugh – landed me on the Fruit Fly Life, which I love. The post below, in particular, will have you ROTFL’ing for real.

Dear Apple Computers:

First you take away our privacy. Then, you take away the selectivity of “cool.” Now, you take away skeezy drug references. Allow me to explain…

…I am not asking for you to change nor am I asking for financial compensation. Instead, I am asking for you to leave me and my like-minded posse alone. Allow us the option to pass out in alley ways unable to trace home because we did not download Google Maps. Allow us to pick restaurants that give us food poisoning but at least have cheap sake bombs because we did not download Urbanspoon. At the very least, allow us to drink real beer instead of beer graphics you downloaded onto your iPhone 4.

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Breakfast was a symbol of something pure that products of divorce, such as myself, used as a compass to happiness; a happy family. While my own family ate wherever they lingered in their solitude and typically only ate together at one table on holidays, there was this ever-present dream of a wholesome family meal; untainted and a ‘what if’ attainability.

The few times we wrestled with sitting down at the table for a family breakfast or dinner, the only thing served was silence or resentment; not much of a variety of tastes. Instead, we could watch Leave It To Beaverreruns at dinner time and watch the Cleavers, loving and virtuous, communicating and eating a full bird. I didn’t get to eat a full bird until recently and if you’ve ever seen a full bird during preparation it’s enough to make you wonder if even June Cleaver, America’s most perfect mother, was a deviant. Looking back, her obsession with kitchen activities and ability to do exceptional card tricks may have just been OCD and a gambling problem. I guess even the All-American family has their imperfections, but it didn’t keep us from looking up to them and wanting a little slice of Cleaver pie.

We watched the Jetsons and heard the media projections on the future, but it came and went without flying cars and watch computers. We didn’t experience the Apocalypse in 2000, and I’m pretty sure the one in 2012 is just a ploy to sell more batteries and water. However, I can’t deny the digital age in front of me and the lack of simplicity all around me. Why would children ride bikes when there’s an app for that? What will become of imagination and pretend when it comes from a device? What will double entendre become but acronyms and symbols like OMG PIG : p (Oh My God Pretty Intelligent Girl–sticking tongue out) . I failed in college at learning another language and luckily Ebonics didn’t stick, but I may have to noodle on text language.

I’ve got to finish this blog posting soon though because my iPhone is blowing up, but the point is that the NY Times came out with an article about electronic breakfast tables (my term, not theirs). It’s a sad reality that my wholesome symbol of family will be as extinct as playing house in a real tree house and not on SIMS.

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Today I woke up, alert, relaxed, and genuinely ready to start my day. Outside my window was a gray film complemented by droplets of rain covering the Friday morning. Typically, I wake up groggy and unwilling to accept that it’s not a weekend so the mere peek outside would have set my depression into overdrive. Not today, nope, I was up and ready to shake a tail feather.

Time was on my side as I leisurely got dressed, my hair dried to a radiant shine, and walked out the door as the sun appeared through the grim sky to greet my face. Pulling out my sunglasses, I had a short skip to my walk and hopped in my car turning on the newly replaced windshield wipers to clear my view so that I could gracefully drive to work. Without a care in the world and not running late for a change this week (road construction stress is the worst especially on a NJ Turnpike), I listened to Q104 (NY’s Classic Rock Station) tapping my steering wheel with an enthusiasm of a newly licensed driver as Billy Joel sang about tie dyed jeans(Captain Jack song).

Every green light danced as my car approached, and the weekly traffic on the NJ Turnpike due to construction parted so that I could veer off at an exit to avoid gridlock. The normally busy Jersey City street was desolate allowing me to bypass the traffic woes of the turnpike, which pumped my smile to a full grin.

Cars lifted in the air as I looked for a parking spot in the usually hard-to-come-by parking lot in Weehawken. Within a few steps of the bus stop, I parked my Honda and gathered my things jumping on the Jitney headed to Manhattan. I sat alone and could breathe without the two overweight stranger’s bodies I usually get sandwiched between, and I got some work done courtesy of my iPhone.